2009-04-29

I think about Shakespeare, where it was said he turned in his plays with hardly any blot in them. I somehow do not believe that. I think he revised endlessly, and then made a new clean copy to turn in. And that if other playwrights turn in plays with blots in them, they are likely lazy with rewriting and stingy with paper. I do believe in rewriting and revising. Getting to the "white heat" is about refining the ore until it cannot be refined anymore. White heat could also refer to the inspiration that leads you to just write your first draft without self-criticism, but you must still look back, and you must revise. Even Dickinson's prose is refined.

Then again, it may say more about me than about how these writers actually worked. I am not that kind of person to revise what I have written. I usually write, and leave the first draft unchanged. But, maybe the ideal I've made of prior writers is what I'm striving toward, that after I obtain the ores--the important step--I must edit and edit until it shines with the white heat.

Kubrick probably posited this idea too. He might have broken down the screenplays to their essential elements reflecting him, then he filmed many takes, then he edits for years until the movie repudiates the forge.

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2009-02-20

in writing

Father:

I am fine. I did not reply because I had very little to say. I believe you are telling me your truth. I was just a little boy when it happened, so all the things I've heard are circumstantial, based on vague and sometimes suppressed memories, stretched over years, and day by day wrought and hewn of emotion. And now, after 20 years, it is a moldy story. I think the court will not care about an old case, or about long-past happenstances and forgotten evidence, but I could be wrong. There have been rare times when people have gone to court for something that happened many decades or centuries ago, and they succeeded. I see the truth you told me that your honor and integrity compel you, you were a victim of a grave injustice, and the time that has so long passed has not yet assuage your pain and anger, and for that you fight for a compensation equal to the emotional anguish and the years lost, but I am saddened to admit it is a fight I have no interest in participating. I am sorry you had to spend four years in prison for what you earnestly know you didn't do wrong. And you are very like a person of great dignity. I am glad there are many people who support you and don't believe you are weak.

I hope you will succeed in making new products that will be popular even though your bookstand is not. If at first you don't succeed, try and try again. I hope to see many different and new things of your gift rather than just the bookstand. If you've only invented the bookstand, then it is only one thing. But what if you've actually invented all the things that are in your head, the ideas you have that you can make into reality? Then you have many things! You are a man of talent, and I hope you are putting it to good use, while you're waiting for someone to buy. Making new and new things will help you improve your skills, help you be more efficient in construction, be less wasteful, and make things that are beautiful. That's why you should keep practicing making new things, and you will improve, and you will get a better sense of engineering and business, and you will be able to design things to do what you want, and people will want to buy them.

I know that you would like my support in the form of money, but I have none to give you. In some ways, it is good to have scarcity, because necessity is the mother of invention, and maybe you will learn to be more creative in managing money, priority, and materials, if you know how to direct that energy to better and more fruitful use.

Good luck,

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2007-09-23

an atlantic essay on philanthropy

The Atlantic, Vol. 145, No. 5, pp. 683-687, by Alice Hamilton, as quoted:

The American workman may earn high wages ... but even if he does, he must live all his working life under the shadow of three Damoclean swords: sickness, loss of his job, and old age, and against these our country, the richest in the world, gives him no protection.

Would generous gifts to organized charity remedy this lack? Well, let him who asks that question imagine for a moment that he himself is faced at sixty-five with the alternatives of private charity, administered with the greatest tact and understanding, and a state pension administered as a matter of official routine. I think there can be no doubt of his choice.

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2007-05-28

Things I read today

2007-05-04

IMG_8103


IMG_8103
Originally uploaded by luxpacis.
Crossposted from flickr

This was taken by a student of ours. I thought it was a nice photo. Look at my hair, so messy. I also noticed that I grinned with evident happiness. We were standing near the water fountain, looking at the bubble bath. I think someone had added a detergent or cleanser that made a lot of bubbles to clean the fountain. Several people sat with their bare feet in the water.

Even though, we seem happy, I think looking at the photo now, I can see where things were ending. This is the just conclusion, and with a reigning sadness. I'm happy to have taught the class, and I'm glad that I was able to convey my enthusiasm. The email sent to us thanked us for teaching this semester.


I have taught the decal class for a year. DECal, which means Democratic Education at Cal, is a program that allows students to teach other students. In some cases, this leads to a variety of classes that are not exactly considered worthwhile, but are offered because they are easy credits. For example, I once took a Harry Potter decal, which claimed to require reading through each book in the series, then discussing critically what happened in the books. I got through the class rather easily, and have sometimes wished that I had the incentive or foresight wisdom to take something else that would be more challenging.

My ASL decal class has been so much fun. Many students have told me that ASL, compared to other classes, are worth taking and earning credits for. Some have asked why Berkeley didn't offer the class. I can only say that the reasons are complicated. I already made a long rant some three years ago about why some colleges refused to accept ASL as a language.

Guess what? That college I was referring to ... was UC Berkeley.

Amazingly enough, I posted that May 11, 2004, which is almost exactly three years ago. I guess the time is either a coincidence, or I have come full circle. UC Berkeley accepted ASL for fulfillment of the foreign language requirement in the middle of 2004, which was late for me. And now, three years later, Berkeley still doesn't offer an ASL class, so students would have to know that they could take ASL at Berkeley City College (formerly Vista Community College), an unlikely occurrence, or wait for a decal class to offer, which I happily did last year and this year. I think that Anna, the other deaf student who recently started at Berkeley, will take over for me. That way, she can maintain the sort of continuity of offering ASL that I have started. It was lucky that she showed up at Berkeley chat at just the right moment. It was probably good that I continued to teach this semester, even though I had already graduated.

Otherwise, ASL class would have stopped, and it would have been unlikely, without my encouraging Anna, that ASL would be offered again.

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2007-02-04

Why I Hate Personal Weblogs

Language Warning, written in 2002
Can you picture these weblog entries, individually or as a whole, being presented at a microphone in front of a crowd of people? Of course not. Why? Because what they have to say is FUCKING STUPID and nobody in the real world would give a flying fuck.
Chapter 6 does show some weblogs that are legitimate in the author's mind, all of which are hard to achieve, as they should be. The entire book, so delineated by chapters, is funny, and somewhat embarrassing from my perspective. Yes, I truly recognize my small importance.

It reminds me of one of Emily Dickinson's poems, a fragment I put out below:
So distant, to alarm
An unconcern so sovereign
Between the universe and me
Infects my simple spirits
With taints of majesty

Still I take vaster attitude
And strut upon my stem
disdaining men and oxygen
for arrogance of them.
What's different between Dickinson and many of us, is that she wrote over 3,000 poems, of those three thousands, published less than 30. Remarkable, prolific, and nearly burned into ashes with everything else that she had if her sister hadn't started reading them.

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2006-12-20

Winter of our Graduation

I can count myself as a graduate of University of California, Berkeley. Until now, I had been unwilling to say that I was a student of UC Berkeley, for the last three years. Now, I am graduating from the very institution that has been the bane and blessing of the last five years, since I was rejected. I was not rejected outright; instead, I was offered a chance to go to a community college before transferring as a third-year student. There were plenty of other good schools I had applied, Santa Cruz and Davis among them. I only know that now in hindsight, when I slowly removed the prejudice that my mother had set before me. I realized that her only two cases for Berkeley were 1) it was close to where we lived, so I could commute there, and 2) it was the school she had heard of in Hong Kong. It was the school to choose, the school that Asia knew was the best and most famous.

I also had five years ago a goal to learn and practice American Sign Language. At first, I thought that going to community college was a hidden blessing because UC Berkeley did not offer ASL classes. I had several choices, and I made Ohlone. Unfortunately, Ohlone was in Fremont, 20 miles away and not close to public transportation. I would have to drive on the I-880 every day, commuting to Ohlone. Either that or live there. After so many conflicting feelings, none of which I could put into thoughts, I eventually chose to go to the safe school of California State University, Hayward (renamed CSU East Bay in 2004). The benefits were that it was close and that it had an ASL program. I later would learn that my mom was disappointed at my choice, even though she gave her support.

At CSUH, I ranged from being happy to being unhappy. Here was a relatively good school, but its atmosphere, I was very aware, seemed to be infused in a feeling of inferiority. On one hand, I could not be happier than when I was learning ASL. On the other hand, I did not have friends that I could talk with. The services provided to a deaf person were mediocre. I was provided either with a microphone to give to a teacher that worked poorly, or had a transcription service that barely meets even half the requirements of providing "equal access" to disabled people as required by law. I was also unhappy with an unpleasant disability counselor for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.

It was the disappointment of my first year at CSUH, coming from a sad year at San Leandro High School, that propelled me to apply to Berkeley again in my sophomore year. In the personal statement, which I think helped convinced the officers to accept me, I talked about being hard of hearing, how I grew up having to learn to talk and write, comparing myself to my hearing cousin, explaining for example how he was already talking at the age of 3 about Pokémon, while I was still struggling to learn to talk when I was 5.

I was accepted, but it was an acceptance tinged with my suspicion that I was a fraud. I mean, I had been doing well in CSUH. I got mostly A's in school. My GPA was in the 3.8 or above. And yet, when I got to Berkeley, I felt a sense that I was a tainted man unfit to enter the "hallowed" halls of this university that only the best and brightest go. The last two years and a half, I have struggled to keep myself upbeat, but I always felt that a sense of failure was imminent. I would be exposed by having an F, a D. I would take easier classes to avoid the harder ones. When I took Organic Chemistry, I got below average. It further reinforced my feeling that I was just a charlatan.

But, later, I met some people that I realize are normal people. I know that all Berkeley students are brilliant, but they are also human. Sometimes, you wonder why they got accepted once you find out certain things, but you just know that they must have done well on the SAT, or wrote well in the essay, or been helped by their parents.

Now, I am graduating, with a degree in Molecular and Cell Biology. I seriously doubt that this will be a big part of my career, because I am not smart enough. I at the very least see that I am not smart or crazy enough to try to continue with lab research that I can comprehend, but not see how to turn into breakthrough discovery. I understand that I do not need to make breakthrough discovery. Many scientists working at Genentech have discovered many drugs that they are testing, but they are unlikely to find something deserving of a Nobel Prize. Instead, they continue to work for Big Pharma.

I still like science. Maybe my experience at Berkeley soured me on doing research because it was always competition with other students and deadlines that I could not effectively comply with. Maybe the real world will be different. I still value my stay at Berkeley. I think that living there for a year, going there for two years and half, have opened my eyes to the world that CSUH could not. In fact, the geography of CSUH, being on a hill, prevents it from being as engaging with the local community as Berkeley has. It also prevents CSUH from being attended, because driving up the hill and dealing with the traffic are not fun for me.

As I graduate, I feel like I have not learned any useful skills, though I have learned many useful facts, thoughts, ideas. I just don't think, for example, that I have learned how to write an essay or a prose, learned how to do comprehensive research, or learned how to program. I do not even have a sense of how to write a conclusion. Maybe that's something I'll have to do by myself.

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2006-09-03

Banksy

Banksy: "You don't go to a restaurant and order a meal because you want to have a shit."

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2006-09-01

20-100

Reason has a Lord -- apparently --
I had thought otherwise --
A thing vice versa predisposed
Or reason was but itself --

No other monarchy referred --
To think but a "to be"
Yours but by you -- a choice --
Not Venus over Mercury.

God has reason, I suppose -- Capriciousness
To us is "his mysterious way" --
If God has thoughts, were they his choice?
Does Reason need a god -- to be?

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2006-08-31

born deaf in a hearing world

I lived within the moving pictures,
Without the captioning.
I could not live in the school,
The teacher, but the TV.

So it must be, no captioning,
No comprehension.
My world was born silent --
I heard no sound.

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2006-08-12

16-100

"tell u whut my thot is.
tell u whut i rote on.
im the 14 yo, rebellin
im the smart one, wiser then u"

Much longer poem in the link.

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the rumbling of a sea change

I'm going to go on a trip to see the Yellowstone, the Mt. Rushmore where the four Presidents' Heads were carved into the limestone, to the alleged horror of many American Indians.

Let's hope I get to see the stampede of bisons, and I get a clearer sense of what this middle of America looks like. I have many stereotypical perceptions that I'm sure will either be fulfilled, be more understood, or be scratched off.

I'll be touching at least four states that I haven't touched, possibly skirting into Wyoming, South Dakota, Utah, Idaho, and somesuch. This will be eight days of driving in the dog days of August, when the gas price is highest.

Let us hope the gas price gets higher. As I think about it, some thirds of American families claim to have been affected by the high gas prices. Mine have not, so I claim they're all lying because they were unwilling to give up some packs of cigarettes, some cartons of beer, some cell phone minutes or a hot tub, a subscription. Anything.

They are living in luxury, and are less happy for it. Thanks a lot, Americans. We'll be driving and spouting our CO2 across this, your heartland.

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